


Five Times Life Doesn't Turn Out Like a Fairy Tale (and One Time It Does)

by Saathi1013



Category: Tin Man (2007)
Genre: F/M, Fairy Tales, Other, POV Female Character, POV Third Person Limited, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Surprise Pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-23
Updated: 2009-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-06 07:09:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Saathi1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Azkadelia-centric, after the war. </p>
<p>See: title, because "Five Things" titles are usually pretty self-explanatory... spot the fairy tales, kids!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Life Doesn't Turn Out Like a Fairy Tale (and One Time It Does)

**Author's Note:**

> No beta, couldn't be bothered. I like to think I'm past the grammar and spelling problems of a complete n00b, though. Also, while I've seen the show (only once! but my DVD is in the mail as I type!) and read a few fics here and there, I can't say as I've done exhaustive research, so if this accidentally echoes something already written, or fails at canon in a really blatant way, please let me know so I can make the appropriate apologies.

_~One: Cinder~_

  
There are funeral pyres burning in the night. Azkadelia cannot sleep, and so she simply stands at her balcony, watching. Dusk has come and gone, reminder of the darkness that almost stayed at her command.

She feels safer in the darkness, invisible with her dark hair floating free to her waist, hiding her face. It’s a constant reminder in the mirror, and the reflections in everyone’s gaze, so she leaves her hair unbound. With a turn of her neck, she can make herself disappear, make the world a little easier for everyone to see.

There are dozens of shimmering, extravagant dresses in her closet, but she’s stripped the outer layers from a handful, wearing the underlying shifts. Most of them are black. This morning, the Queen her mother noticed the exposed threads and stays, offering to send for a seamstress to create something ‘more becoming.’ Her lavender eyes were filled with all the words she would not say. Azkadelia refused, for there are better things to do with the royal coffers than spend money on a  _makeover_  to reassure the servants.

There are servants in the castle again –  _servants_ , not minions, a fine distinction. Not a one has entered Azkadelia’s rooms, high in one wing where the vaulted roof makes the ceiling slant to meet the walls; they leave her meals at the door. She cleans up after herself, bathes herself, dresses herself.

She stays out of the way, while everyone cleans up the larger mess she’s left, outside the walls.

There are funeral pyres burning in the night. The loyalists are burning Longcoat bodies en masse, the way one burns a trash heap. Those who fought for the Queen and died were given full honors earlier in the week, while carrion crows stood vigil for the Witch’s troops.

She can smell the smoke on the wind, can remember their faces. She had no fondness for them as the Witch, but no one else will remember their names for them when their flesh has burned away and their charred bones are tumbled into a pit.

The wind whips the flames into a frenzied dance, high and wild. When Azkadelia licks her lips, she tastes salt and ash.  
  


 

_~Two: Briar~_

Azkadelia walks around the edges of things.

When she’d been the Witch, she’d had everyone come to her, stood in the center of everything and watched their orbits spin around her. Now, she stays out of everyone’s way, walking longer distances to avoid others’ paths. She paces the outskirts of the neglected gardens and touches the wizened vines. Some of them respond. They crack and peel and fall apart, the magic in her fingers too used to destruction.

She’s kneeling by a trellis, trying to remember that  _she used to have the Light, too_ , when the Viewer finds her. She starts when he kneels beside her, almost silent in his approach.

“I-I’m sorry,” she says, gathering her dignity around her but fighting the old posture of disdain that that used to mean. “I’ve forgotten your name…”

“Raw,” he says simply, kindly.

“Yes, Deeg’s friend,” she muses. “Um. Did someone send you for me? Am I- am I supposed to be somewhere?” Her family doesn’t ask much, but occasionally one of them – or Glitch, or Cain – comes to bring her to meals. Azkadelia doesn’t know if it’s to make sure she’s eating or to make sure that she’s still  _herself_. She forgets meals and who she is, sometimes, so either concern is valid.

“No,” he replies. “Raw like it here. Reminder of home.”

She looks away, her hands twisting in her lap. If he’d meant to reassure her, he’s failed. She remembers what the Witch did to his people, and knows that this barren little courtyard is a good approximation.

After a moment, Raw takes her hands, untangles them, and guides them to the vines. Under their fingertips, the stems stretch and turn green. Pale yellow blooms arch overhead. She stares, drinking in the color, the  _life_  surrounding them.

“Still have the Light,” he says. “Brighter after darkness.” He lets her hands go, and she clutches at the greenery. “Just have to remember, like everyone else.” He stands, bows, and presses a kiss to her forehead, almost like benediction, or  _forgiveness_. Her hands tighten, and a thorn bites deep into her palm.

He leaves as quietly as he’d come.

When a gardener finds her later, she’s asleep beneath the trellis, crimson rose petals in her hair.  
  


 

_~Three: Fish~_

Azkadelia has a bathtub large enough to fit two grown men beside her. She tries not to remember why she knows this when she bathes, which is probably more often than is customary.

When she ducks under the water to rinse her hair, she opens her eyes and screams. Silently.

 

 

  
_~Four: Apple~_

Wyatt Cain, now Head of the Queen’s Royal Guard, finds her in the garden one afternoon. She’s learned to bring small things back to life – daisies, a square foot of grass, but nothing so spectacular as a whole tree or rosebush – and she keeps working to fix the entire garden, one bit at a time. Even when it leaves her exhausted and disheveled, dirt under her fingernails and smudging one cheek.

“Princess,” he says, respectfully. There is a chill and distance in his eyes and his voice, but he is  _unfailingly_  polite. “The Queen requests your presence at dinner.” He is stoic and stiff when he addresses her, while he laughs at Glitch’s jests or returns D.G’s casual hugs, and Azkadelia accepts every bit of blame he doesn’t speak aloud.

She looks up at him, almost pleadingly, wanting him to spare her this, but he does not give. One hand is on his belt, by his gun, and though she knows it’s an unconscious habit, she almost wishes it wasn’t.

They stop by the kitchens, stealing a bottle of his favorite ale and a basket of fruit. She takes the basket, leaving him one hand free to open doors.

“Oh!” D.G’s voice is delighted and cheerful when they enter the dining room. “Glitch, look! Apples!” Her sister takes one from the basket and bites deep, eyes bright with gratitude and welcome.

 

  
_~Five: Puppet~_

Her mother, at some point, has replaced all her clothing. It’s all soft and pale and drifting, like clouds in a sunrise. Azkadelia relearns how to stand upright without a corset, to square her shoulders without armor. Everything’s lighter, less constricting, and she feels exposed.

It’s the second month since the eclipse, and Azkadelia is forcing herself to look at the reminders. She goes to the dungeons, and whispers the names of the captives held in each cell. She can’t remember them all.

She goes to the ironworks, and watches them melt down the tin suits.

In the surgery, she nicks a finger on a scalpel.

Glitch is already there, when she goes to see Ambrose. She almost doesn’t enter, but remembers why she’s there; if she’s to stare at her handiwork, he is a part of this. He only tenses a little when he spots her, clearly fighting instinct.

“Princess,” he says, braving a smile.

“Amb – Glitch, I’m so-“

He shakes his head. “It wasn’t you.”

“Is there anything…?” Azkadelia stops, biting her lip.

“The chirurgeons say that it can’t be replaced,” he replies. “But Raw is doing what he can to restore as much as possible before it degrades…” He has been improving; she’s noticed that he remembers more of his old self and he doesn’t forget as often. But  _still_.

“I wish…” she starts. Her hands are twisting around each other again. “I wish there was something I could  _do_ …” She’s done  _enough_ , hasn’t she?

His smile is kind, like Raw’s, sad and forgiving. “It’s all right, princess.” He puts a hand on her shoulder as he leaves, squeezing reassurance before it’s gone.

“By the way,” he adds, pausing in the doorway and tilting his head sideways to look at her. “You look pretty in blue.”

 

  
_~One: Book~_

There’s a celebration underway. It’s been a year since the Eclipse, and the O.Z. is well on its way to recovery. There are fireworks above Central City, and there’s a grand fete going on below.

Azkadelia is in the library.

She had tried to evade the public appearances, but her mother insisted on at least  _one_ , to remind everyone she’s not the same person whose defeat they are all cheering tonight. So she’d worn the dress her mother had picked out, a frothy, draped confection in pale yellow with crystals sewn all over. She’d sat through dinner, with all the ambassadors and court officials acting alternately uncomfortable or too-jovial around her.

When the dancing started, she’d promptly feigned a twisted ankle halfway through the first song and fled.

The library is dark and quiet, and the fire is warm and bright enough to chase the shadows away. Her dress catches the light and turns gold, the crystals scattering pinpricks of light across the pages of the book on her lap.

She’s not really reading, just staring into the fire, when someone comes up to her.

“I’m fine, Deeg,” she says, wearily. “Go dance with your charming wannabe-princes.”

It’s not her sister.

“Oh. Raw.”

“Ankle not hurt,” he comments, casually. She’s curled sideways in the huge armchair, bare feet dangling over one side, both ankles clearly uninjured.

“Um. Don’t tell mother.” She straightens into a more decorous position as he pulls an ottoman close and sits beside her.

“No,” he agrees, “Raw not tell.”

The fire crackles and dances, logs popping and shooting sparks up the chimney. They’re both quiet for a long minute.

“Got tired of the dancing, too?” Azkadelia finally ventures.

“No. Princess hurt, Raw come to heal.”

“Oh.” But he’s still  _here_.

“What book?” he asks. She tips the volume so he can see the cover. He looks at her, not the book.

“Cannot read.”

“Oh,” she says again, feeling stupid. She  _knows_  that Viewers don’t read; they pass on their knowledge telepathically. “It’s um, just kid stuff.”

His eyes glint in the firelight. “Please, read?”

Haltingly, she does. A princess in a tower, a handsome prince, a wicked witch. It’s all the same, over and over, and none of it is real. When she’s done, she looks up to see that he’s still watching her.

Azkadelia notices, finally, that he’s been dressed up, too. His hair is combed and held back with a blue ribbon, like the illuminated courtiers in the book. His plain pants and fur vest have been replaced by cream silk and a blue jacket. She shouldn’t laugh, but does.

“Did my mother dress you, too?” she manages between giggles.

He’s not offended; he laughs, too, a low chortle that rumbles though her sternum. “Yes, Queen sent clothes as gift.”

“I’m so sorry. Did you see what she saddled me with?” Azkadelia says, standing and pirouetting in her bare feet. Spots of light dance across the walls and bookshelves, like she’s a crystal chandelier. She keeps turning, remembering the dolls, wanting to fly away.

Raw catches her mid-spin, standing in front of her, hands surprisingly gentle on her waist.

“Oh,” she says, a little dizzy and grateful for the support.

“Princess  _hurt_ ,” Raw repeats.

“No, my ankle is-” she starts. His fingers touch her chest, on the bare skin. Above her heart.

“Raw heal,” he says, eyes dark and serious before he bows to press his lips there. It’s only a moment, but she’s gasping and shaking in his arms when he straightens to look at her. She suddenly feels awake like she hasn’t  _ever,_ for as far back as she can remember – like she’s been drowning in slow-motion since the cave, and was only  _trying_  to swim after the Witch was banished.

Now,  _finally_ , she can breathe fresh air, and does, gulping it into her lungs with heaving sobs. Raw holds her until the shaking subsides. When her eyes clear, he’s smiling at her quietly.

_He’s actually quite handsome_ , she realizes.

“Dance with me?” she asks, hearing strains of the orchestra filtering through the hallways. He nods hesitantly, suddenly self-conscious.

She takes his hand and leads him in the steps.

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old story; I am updating my archive here for completion.


End file.
